The Last Time She Saw Him

by Jane Haseldine

  Ben’s dreams of the future were suddenly interrupted by a sharp blast of a car horn from behind. The approaching car trying to get our attention was an old lime-green Cadillac with pointy tail fins in the back and a dent in the driver side door. As the Cadillac pulled to a stop alongside of us, the tinted driver-side window slowly cranked down, and Ben and I were greeted by a blast of cheap drug-store aftershave and KC and the Sunshine Band’s “I’m Your Boogie Man” thumping from the eight-track player. A man with thick, blond sideburns poked his head out the window and gave us a wide smile.

  “Hey, kids, do you want a ride?” the man asked. He pulled out a piece of Juicy Fruit gum from a pack on the dashboard and folded it into his mouth, all the while bopping his head as KC sang he was here to do whatever he can.

  “I’m kind of tired,” I said and gave my brother my best pleading look. The music coming from the car was loud and hypnotizing. Plus, I saw a few extra sticks of Juicy Fruit gum in the pack, and I bet the man would offer one without me even having to ask.

  “No thanks. We’re fine,” Ben snapped at the driver. “Our dad is a cop and he’s just around the corner waiting for us. He gets mad if we talk to strangers, so I sure wouldn’t want to be you right now, mister.”

  The man in the Cadillac reached his hand outside the window and gave my forearm a squeeze.

  “Hey, let go of my sister!” Ben yelled. The man in the car wasn’t impressed. He just stared back at Ben with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

  Ben stared down the stranger, and my brother’s eyes suddenly changed, turning dark and hard, like wet stone. Ben knotted his hands into fists, ready to strike just as a Woodie with a surfboard tucked on top hung a right on Beach Drive and headed right toward us. The man in the Cadillac carefully noted the progress of the approaching vehicle in his rearview mirror and released his grip from my arm.

  “Fine. Just trying to help you kids out. No crime in trying to do a good deed. Have a nice day, you two.”

  As his parting gesture, the man in the Cadillac lifted up his left arm and flashed us a peace sign, exposing a tattoo of Woodstock, Snoopy’s yellow bird sidekick, etched on his forearm.

  “Get out of here, you jerk,” Ben called out to the Cadillac, but it had already shot down Beach Drive.

  “Why did you say our dad is a cop? I’m tired, and it’s going to be dark soon. It would’ve been nice to catch a ride the rest of the way.”

  “If you ever, ever take a ride from a stranger, I will kick your butt, understand me? I’m serious. That guy looked creepy anyway,” Ben answered.

  We walked the next two miles in silence. By the time we finally got home, the sun was beginning to set, so we huddled in our room to debrief about our day. Ben and I shared a room since Sarah refused to bunk with an idiot baby like me. That’s what she said. But I didn’t mind bunking with my brother. Not at all.

  Ben, being the older one, got the luxury hand-me-down bed, while I slept on the squeaky, thin cot next to the sliding glass door that led to the courtyard.

  I put on my nightgown and strained to recall the best plays of the last New York Yankees game. While most good children recited their prayers before bed, Ben and I talked baseball, the New York Yankees to be exact. Ben absolutely loved the team and knew every stat of his favorite players: Catfish Hunter, Lou Piniella, Bucky Dent, and the hotshot rookie, Ron Guidry.

  “Do you think the Yankees will make it to the World Series?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding me? Of course they’ll make it, even though they signed that idiot Reggie Jackson,” Ben said.

  “What’s wrong with Reggie Jackson?”

  “He thinks he’s a big shot coming over from the Baltimore Orioles. It’s like he thinks he’s too good for the Yankees. And he doesn’t show Billy Martin any respect. Remember that Red Sox game? Billy Martin pulled Jackson out in the middle of the inning and he deserved it. Jackson was lazy as heck. You watched the game with me, remember?”

  “I think so.” Of course I remembered. I just wanted Ben to give me the play-by-play.

  “A blooper ball was coming right at Jackson, and Mr. Big Shot couldn’t hustle a few feet to catch it. That was a pretty good fight Billy Martin and Jackson almost got into in the clubhouse though. I tell you what, the only way Reggie Jackson will ever get my respect is if he nails a bunch of home runs in the World Series.”

  “If the Yankees make it to the World Series, can I watch the games with you?” I asked.

  “Sure, I promise. Maybe one day when I’m older, I’ll take you to a game.”

  “Oh, I’d love that.”

  Ben pulled out his collection of New York Yankees baseball cards he kept in a cigar box our dad gave him, and I tried to get comfortable in my lowly excuse for a bed. The springs of the old cot let out a tired squeak as I turned over on my side and faced the sliding glass door to the courtyard. A feeling, unfamiliar and nagging, wrapped around me and wouldn’t let go. Unable to shake it, I got up from the cot to check the door.

  “What are you doing?” Ben asked.

  “I thought I heard something outside. I just want to be sure the door is locked.”

  “The sound you heard was probably Mom taking off so she could hit the bars. The door is locked, for crying out loud. You’re fine. We’ve got the first day of school tomorrow. Time to go to bed.”

  I didn’t want Ben to think I was a scared baby. Plus, he was always right. The door had to be locked. That’s what Ben said so it had to be true.

  I left the door unchecked and climbed back into bed. Ben shut the light off, and I stared up at the ceiling, which was punctuated with a few glow-in-the-dark stars Ben had won for me earlier that summer at Funland.

  “Can we leave the light on?” I asked.

  “Are you afraid of the dark now?”

  “A little bit tonight.”

  “What do you think is going to happen?” Ben asked.

  “The boogeyman is going to get me.”

  I could hear Ben’s deep belly laugh in the darkness.

  “I’m not turning the light on. You’re fine. There’s no such thing as the boogeyman. Besides, I’d never let anything bad happen to you.”

  “You’ll never leave me, right?”

  “Why would you ask a weirdo question like that? You’re thinking about those scary shows like Dark Shadows and Kolchak: The Night Stalker again, huh? I told you not to watch those with me because I knew you couldn’t take it.”

  “I could take it,” I lied.

  “Then why are you scared?” Ben asked.

  “Well, maybe I’m thinking about those shows just a little bit. But promise me anyway. Swear you’ll never leave. Dad leaves us all the time.”

  “That’s different. I promise, I’ll never leave you. Not in a million years. You’re my bright spot. We were born into a bad life, but we’re going to be okay. You’ll see. We’re going to come out of this all right.”

  “I love you, Ben.”

  And then he said it. He never did anymore.

  “I love you too, Julia.”

  * * *

  I push back the memory and get back to the business of securing the house. Once the security alarm is activated, my nerves ease slightly, but I still want to double-check the deadbolt on the front door and install the safety bar across the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard in the downstairs playroom. I start upstairs first. I yank the front doorknob as hard as I can until my hands shake from the effort, and the wooden door groans against the metal lock. Satisfied that it is secure, I start downstairs but pause when I see the answering machine’s message light blinking a furious red on the kitchen countertop. I hesitate for a minute, and then hit the play button.

  First message: “It’s Primo. I know you aren’t scheduled to come back to the paper until later in the month, but I need you back in the newsroom first thing tomorrow. Reverend Casey Cahill is up for parole. The parole hearing isn’t scheduled for a couple of weeks, but you need to start working on a Sun
day centerpiece for the weekend. I’m sure The Detroit News is working on the same angle, so we need to beat them to it. Get a face-to-face with Cahill at the Macomb prison. Don’t call me back with excuses. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I hit the delete button.

  Second message: “Julia, it’s Sarah.”

  I stare back at the answering machine as if it’s an unwanted old ghost.

  “Things ended on a bad note for us. I’m in town. I flew all the way to Michigan to see you. I still have the same number. I just want to make amends for what I did. I hope you’ll call. I miss you, Julia.”

  For a second, the memory of the sister I used to know begins to creep back. My sentimentality quickly gives in to anger and I slam down the delete button.

  “Third message,” the answering machine’s robotic monotone continues.

  I wait for a voice, but the only sound on the recording is a loud crackling on the line. Must be a bad cell phone connection, I think. I wait for a second to erase the message when a barely audible voice cuts through.

  “Julia . . . get out . . .”

  The voice is almost a whisper.

  “Can’t get there in time . . .”

  “Who the hell is this?” I ask.

  “It’s coming back . . .”

  My heart starts to pound in my chest.

  “For you this time.”

  The caller ends the message abruptly. A steady whine of dial tone hums through the answering machine for a good thirty seconds until it is replaced by a busy signal.

  “End of third message.”

  My eyes dart across the kitchen countertop and hover for a second on a wooden knife rack, but then move to the house phone. I reach for it and accidentally knock a stack of Logan’s library books to the floor. I pull the receiver from the cradle and pound my finger on the keypad to dial 911.

  “Come on, come on!” I cry out and jam the phone receiver against my ear.

  The phone is dead.

  A silent scream begins to build from deep within my core. Paranoid personality disorder. That’s what David and the psychiatrist would say. Just a coincidental sequence of two unrelated events.

  But the caller said my name.

  I force myself to focus. My cell phone is downstairs. I left it in the boys’ playroom earlier when we got home from the lake. I slide a six-inch steak knife out of the rack and grasp it firmly in my right hand as I make my way down the staircase to the bottom floor of the house.

  The downstairs playroom is completely dark except for a soft reflection of moonlight coming from the sliding glass door that faces the backyard.

  I flick the wall switch and fully expect to see someone pressed up against the window, Freddy Krueger style. But no one is there, just pitch-black country night on the other side of the glass.

  I exhale, one battle down, and head to the glass door to check the lock.

  I take exactly six steps across the playroom when the lights go out. David’s voice echoes in my head, telling me everything is fine. Just something faulty in the wiring. All I need to do is check the circuit breaker. Easy as pie, Julia.

  Bullshit.

  I sprint through the dark room in the direction of the stairs when my hip catches hard against the pool table. On impact, the knife flies out of my hand and I struggle to regain my balance.

  I fumble on hands and knees to find the knife when a piercing crash echoes from the kitchen and the now-broken object scatters its remains across the upstairs floor.

  “Logan?” I call out, trying to quell any trace of fear in my voice. Logan is afraid of the dark. “It’s okay. The power is out. Just stay where you are.”

  Logan doesn’t respond.

  I scramble like a crab across the floor until my hand grazes the first step of the stairwell. I grab the bannister to steady myself as footsteps, hard and fast, run directly above me. I try to scream but fear chokes off my voice as I finally accept my worst nightmare is no longer just playing in an endless loop in my mind. This time it’s real. Someone is inside.

  I hear a voice screaming and realize it’s my own.

  “Logan, run to Will’s room and lock the door!”

  My desperate plea is muffled by a second set of heavy footsteps that thump down the upstairs hallway toward the boys’ rooms.

  “Get out of my house!” I cry as my foot hits the landing.

  The main floor of the house is dark, except for a faint sliver of light coming through the now open door to the garage. I start toward the garage but instinctively change my route and run to the boys’ rooms instead.

  “The safe is downstairs. It’s unlocked,” I cry. We don’t have a safe. If the intruders just go downstairs, I can grab the boys and we can get out of the house.

  “The police are on their way, and I’m armed,” I lie again as I run for Logan and Will.

  Logan’s bedroom is the first room on the left. His door is wide open. I feel my heart beating up into my throat as I enter the room. In the contours of the darkness, I can make out a small lump huddled in the corner of the bed. I lunge forward to grab Logan, but quickly realize the shape is only his Spider-Man blanket bunched up by his pillow.

  “Logan!” I scream as something latches around my ankle.

  “Mommy, it’s me,” Logan whimpers.

  I slide down on my stomach and face my oldest son, who is cowering under his bed.

  “You need to stay in the room, baby. Follow Mommy to the door and then lock it. Do not unlock the door unless I tell you.”

  “I want to go with you, Mommy. Please!” Logan sobs.

  “No. Stay here. Understand?”

  “Okay, Mommy,” Logan whispers.

  Logan has a flashlight on top of his nightstand. I grab the flashlight and wait until I hear Logan lock the door behind me.

  The fresh scent of body odor and cigarettes clings in the hallway.

  Will’s door is closed tight. I left it open a few inches when I put him to sleep just twenty minutes earlier. I flash the thin beam of the light in front of the closed door. The light catches the Winnie the Pooh and Piglet stencil I put on Will’s bedroom door this summer.

  The door is locked. I rear my leg back and slam my foot against the thin wooden door, which snaps open after three tries. I strengthen my grip around the flashlight, ready to use it as a weapon. Back and forth, up and down, I point the flashlight in all directions. I have to see the intruders before they see me.

  But the light only catches the mundane objects of a toddler’s room: Will’s brown stuffed dog with the white eye patch, his changing table with clothes I already laid out for morning, and a framed vintage picture of the Sparrow boardwalk I hung for luck. Ben promised he would always be there to protect me, and I wanted to believe he would do the same for Logan and Will.

  I let the flashlight fall down by my feet and dive my arms inside the crib. I instinctively expect to feel Will’s soft sleeping body against my touch, but instead my hands feel only his crib sheet, still warm, underneath my fingers.

  “Will!” I scream.

  I flail my hands against the floor until I feel the metal cylinder of the flashlight, which shut off after I dropped it. I have to find Will before the intruders escape with him outside. I picture the open door to the garage. I should have gone in that direction first, and if I am too late, there are no second chances.

  I tear down the hallway toward the garage. Inside, I notice the door to the driveway is open and an icy slice of moon casts its pale light onto Will’s yellow and white baby blanket, crumpled in a heap on the ground next to his Snoopy doll and a discarded package of Marlboro Lights cigarettes.

  “I’m going to kill you!” I scream as I race into the warm early September night air. “Give me back my son!”

  “Stupid girl,” a voice hisses behind me. Before I can turn around, something connects with the back of my head.

  And then there is only darkness.

  CHAPTER 4

  Twenty-four. I can see the number floating in
neon blue out in the darkness like a single star lost in the night.

  “Twenty-four.” I feel my lips move as they whisper the number.

  “She’s regaining consciousness,” a woman’s voice says above me. “That’s it, Julia. Come back to us.”

  I start to open my eyes when a searing pain shoots across the back of my skull.

  “Take it easy there.” The voice belongs to a female paramedic kneeling over me. Next to her is a baby-faced police officer I don’t recognize. “What’s twenty-four, Julia?”

  “Twenty-four hours. The amount of time we have to find Will.” I say the words before I realize what they mean.

  The first twenty-four hours in a missing person’s case are the most critical, especially when the missing person in question is a child. Within this narrow time frame, all stops have to be pulled out in order to find the child alive or to find the child at all. Sheer panic whispers in my ear and beckons me away from my paper-thin veneer of sanity.

  “Someone kidnapped my son. I have to find him.”

  “Hold on, I have to check you first. That’s a nasty bump you got on the back of your head. We need to take you to the hospital.”

  “No way. Where’s Logan?”

  “That’s a brave little boy you have there,” the paramedic answers and points the beam of a narrow flashlight in front of my eyes to check for a concussion. “And resourceful. He found your cell phone and called 911. He’s inside the house talking to the police.”

  “The police shouldn’t be talking to Logan without David or me there.”

  I sit up quickly and feel a wave of nausea and dizziness wash through me, but I fight through it and force myself up on wobbly legs.

  “You really shouldn’t . . .” the paramedic starts.

  I regain my balance and keep walking through the darkness to the front door with the steadiness of a well-imbibed patron after last call.

  I know what to expect based on the driveway. I pass by an unmarked Crown Victoria and a patrol car and enter my home, now a crime scene, and begin to search for Logan.

  “Mom!” Logan cries out from the living room and runs as fast as he can away from the circle of officers surrounding him and lands in my arms.